


Gale Force Winds

by Ewebie



Series: Tumblr Shorts [29]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: HAPPY THANKSGIVING!, I finally figured out why I hadn't written this... Because these two idiots are SERIOUSLY dumb, I refuse to apologise for this..., It's not smutty... y'all know how I am about that... but there's some mature bits too, M/M, Platonic Bedsharing, We all know where this is going..., You know what... Sherlock is a dick sometimes, it's basically fluff, mystrade, rainstorm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-22
Updated: 2017-11-22
Packaged: 2019-02-05 11:46:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12793878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ewebie/pseuds/Ewebie
Summary: “Five minutes,” Lestrade muttered angrily. “I’m on a train. Because Sherlock wouldn’t bother to think that I drove myself here. In my car. Which he stole and gave to a God. Dammed. CAR THIEF!” For good measure, he yelled. Just once. And loudly. Then heaved a breath, tightened his scarf, and turned up his collar against the rain. If he crossed his arms and huddled in the corner, he could pretend it wasn’t just above freezing.Even if you never asked for this... you have it now. You can all thank me later.





	Gale Force Winds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FleurDeLis221B](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FleurDeLis221B/gifts).



> I blame fleur for this one too... though I don't think it's _actually_ her fault. It's just that she definitely sent me something that led to "platonic bed-sharing" that led to "why have you never done a Mystrade platonic bed-sharing?" and let me tell you... I know exactly why. Because making these two end up alone and stuck somewhere is a giant pain in the arse. And beyond that, they are both SUCH idiots that I was literally screaming at them half the time I was writing this... there are conversations that prove this point. Never again. You hear that, Greg?! Get your shit together, son!

“Un-fucking-believable,” Lestrade cursed at his mobile and glared at the message again.

_Car thief apprehended. Appropriate bait was required. Kind Regards. –SH_

He punched the keys angrily, holding it to his ear as he tried to blow some warmth back into his free hand. Voicemail. Typical. “What the bloody hell did you do with my car, you pompous twat?!”

He didn’t have to wait long. His phone pinged with another incoming message.

_I prefer to text. Really, Gordon, are you so oblivious? –SH_

That sodding… Conceited… Pretentious… It was quite possible the cold rain had started to steam off his face from the heat of his anger. It was only with immense concentration that Greg Lestrade didn’t smash his phone to pieces. When he got his hands on him…

His phone rang. Actually rang. Dear God, it was a miracle. “Lestrade,” he snarled.

“Greg, where the hell are you?”

“Would you know, I’m just inside Thetford Park. Where you left me. When you TOOK MY CAR!”

“Jesus Cr-Sherlock!” John must have covered the receiver, because for a moment, all Greg could hear was unintelligible shouting and the pounding of his own rage. John came back on the line with a heavy sigh. “Greg… Where exactly are you?”

“I’m standing in a bus shelter somewhere on the west side of the park. Why am I in a bus shelter? Good question, John. Because it’s bloody well raining!” He stamped his feet in equal parts childish temper and in hopes of regaining feeling in his toes. “Why? Where are you?”

John swore rather colorfully. “On a train. Nearly at Chelmsford.”

“John, I’m going to kill him.”

“Greg…”

“No, don’t bother trying to talk me out of it. Tell him the next time I see him, I’m going to wring his neck.”

John sighed. “Give me five minutes. I’ll call you back.”

“You’d better.”

“I will. Five minutes.” John rung off.

“Five minutes,” Lestrade muttered angrily. “I’m on a train. Because Sherlock wouldn’t bother to think that I drove myself here. In my car. Which he stole and gave to a God. Dammed. CAR THIEF!” For good measure, he yelled. Just once. And loudly. Then heaved a breath, tightened his scarf, and turned up his collar against the rain. If he crossed his arms and huddled in the corner, he could pretend it wasn’t just above freezing.

It was less than five minutes before John rang back. “Greg, listen.”

“This had better be good…”

“Do you have at least thirty minutes of battery on your mobile?”

He frowned at the screen before answering with a hesitant, “yes.”

“Good. Turn on the GPS. I’ve sorted you a ride.”

“Thanks, I think.”

John chuckled. “Can I negotiate you down from a strangling to a grounding away from the Met?”

“Ask me again when I can feel my fingers.”

~

Ten minutes later and the rain had become torrential. And Greg was, in spite of the shelter, soaking wet and muttering to himself again. “You know, I’ve always wondered why you never reached DCI, Lestrade. Have you now? I’ll tell you why. It’s because Sherlock bloody Holmes stole your car and you drowned in an off-season flood in the middle of a forest. Well, that’s a shame. No, what’s a shame is that my legacy is being incompetent, because some posh twat gets off solving murders for his boyfriend. Boyfriend you say? Yes. Because no one would put up with him that long if they weren’t getting a leg over. Ah, but what about you? Me? I got a DIVORCE!” His shout was punctuated by a loud crack of thunder.

He stopped ranting, pulling himself out of the corner of the shelter as the cadence of the rain changed. He heard the tires before he could see the headlights around the bend, and that was a testament to how dark it was and how thick the rain. He squinted curiously into the oncoming lights, the rumble of the engine rough and low. That was not what he’d expected. Jeep? No, Range Rover. Not a polished and glistening London leisure car, but a matte green, all-terrain that looked as though it had already traversed a few minor hills to get there. Which was fine. Because the cab would be warm and dry, and both of those were things he currently was not.

Then the monstrosity pulled to a stop. And even more unexpected, Greg found himself staring, gawping maybe, at Mycroft Holmes. Not only was Mycroft Holmes _in_ the Range Rover, he was _driving_ it.

“Detective Inspector?”

He shook himself. Right. Warm and dry cab. He made quick work scrambling into the passenger seat and sighed with relief at the heat blasting from the dash. “I don’t even want to know how you managed to get here in ten minutes.”

Mycroft cocked a brow and slid the car expertly into gear. “I believe it rather worked out in your favor that I was on some exquisitely tedious business at Lakenheath.”

“Oh?” Dear God, even his hair was soaked. He ran his fingers through it and shook the moisture away. “Didn’t know you had a hand in the RAF.”

“To make use of one of Sherlock’s favorite phrases, I have fingers in many pies.”

Greg snorted.

“I do believe that aviation is, if not directly then tangentially, associated with the Department of Transportation.”

“Is it now?” Greg crossed his arms and stretched out his legs, trying to get his feet as close to the floor heater as possible.

“Minor position,” Mycroft murmured, his face momentarily illuminated by a flash of lightning.

“That gets you loans of RAF vehicles from Lakenheath,” Greg chided. “Which reminds me, how much do I need to thank John later for whatever bargain he made to get me this lift?”

Mycroft’s lips twitched. “I ought to be thanking you. While I may still be in the red, so to speak, I am now one great favor less in debt to Dr. Watson than I found myself earlier today. Besides, as I said, the meetings were tedious.”

“Can I hope that my car is included in this deal somehow?”

“Sadly no, Detective Inspector.” Now Mycroft was smirking. “I believe your car has been retained as… Evidence in your most recent case.”

“Sod it all,” he pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes.

“If it is at all reassuring, your car was repossessed before anyone could modify it.”

“Oh good.” He sighed and stared at the wipers as they flicked back and forth across the windscreen. “Wait. Why are you driving?”

The beginnings of a frown pulled at Mycroft’s mouth. “Should I not be?”

“Well… Yeah, no. I mean. You don’t normally drive. You get driven. I don’t think I even knew you had a license.”

“As a representative of the Department of Transportation, it would seem disingenuous to be without a license, would it not?”

Greg huffed, “I suppose.”

“Unlike some mutual acquaintances we share.”

“Oh God.” Greg stared at Mycroft. “Sherlock doesn’t have a license.”

Mycroft smiled. “You misunderstand me.”

“John? Really? I assumed the army would have made sure…”

“Made sure he knew how, of course.” Mycroft took his eyes off the road momentarily. “Supplying him with the governmental permits and papers, they did not.”

“Oh boy.”

“Quite. Though while Sherlock may have a license, he rather opted not to fulfill the required coursework.” Another flash of lightning preceded the boom of thunder that rattled the cab of the vehicle.

Greg groaned. “You made sure he had one.”

Mycroft tisked. “Minor position.”

“Horseshit,” Greg grinned. “So John doesn’t drive, because he doesn’t have the license where Sherlock does. Even when he has the experience that Sherlock doesn’t?”

Mycroft made a non-committal sound.

“That pair of utter tossers.” Even though he was warming up, he was only just realizing how drenched he truly was. “Where did this storm even come from?”

“I believe there was a dust storm in the south central Sahara, which combined with the unusually warm currents-“

A blinding streak of lightning illuminated the pitch black of the storm, landing dangerously close to the road and hit a tree. The massive branch that snapped free crashed onto the road directly into their path. Greg’s arm shot out across the cab to press Mycroft back into his seat. In spite of the sudden change of direction and Greg’s swear, which was drown out by the low rumble of the storm, Mycroft expertly avoided the obstacle, easily shifting gear on the incline before righting the vehicle.

After a moment, Greg pulled his hand back. “I… Sorry.”

Mycroft shifted against his lap belt. “However unnecessary the rather fruitless gesture, I appreciate the sentiment behind it.”

“Sentiment,” Greg huffed out a nervous laugh. “Let me guess, SAS evasive driving?”

“The SAS is the sixth most expert in tactical driving.” Mycroft raised a brow and smirked at him. “I trained with the second.”

“Only the second?”

“At the time, Russia was-“

A loud bang rocked the vehicle just as they hit a large water slick and the jarring motion sent them into wild fish tail, hydroplaning then spinning across the road and into the embankment. As quickly as it started, the car came to a crashing halt.

Greg slowly peeled his hands off the dash and gave his head a quick shake. “Alright?”

Mycroft grimaced and hummed.

The rain beat heavily on the cab as the engine ticked. Greg cleared his throat, “Flat?”

“Apparently.”

“Where are we?”

Mycroft blinked at the last stretch of forest. “Ten minutes to Brandon, I expect.”

Greg nodded. “You expect?”

“Depending on the direction of the wind gusts, it may require an extra minute on foot.”

“Great.”

~

If he thought he was wet before… Greg shook free the water dripping down his arms and tried to keep the small puddle he was creating in a contained space. “Told you the umbrella was a bad idea.”

Mycroft frowned viciously. Having not been properly dressed for the weather, he was, perhaps, worse for wear and looking displeased about it. “Quite.”

“You look like a drowned cat.” Greg grinned. At least, he hoped he did. The cold and rain had left his face feeling rather numb about ten minutes back. Mycroft’s scowl deepened. “Oi, don’t look at me like that. I suggested this place the first time around. How can you run the government and not know that trains actually stop running at some point in the evening.”

“I do not run the government,” Mycroft hissed.

Greg chuckled. “Next you’ll tell me that you can’t control the weather.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Can I help you gentlemen?”

Greg twisted to find a middle-aged man at the previously vacant reception desk. “Ah, yeah. I certainly hope so. We’re a bit stuck. Any chance you have space for us tonight?”

“Just tonight?” the man asked.

“Train tomorrow, assuming they’re running after this storm.”

The man smiled. “We’re hearty enough out here. They’ll be running.”

Greg flashed Mycroft a lop-sided grin. “The success of the Department of Transport.” Mycroft rolled his eyes and continued his tight-lipped glower.

“I’ve only the one room tonight,” the man said apologetically. “We’re a small business. Big family wedding in town this weekend. We’ve hundreds of… Well… Brandons coming home to Brandon.”

Greg smiled. “Ta. The one is fine.”

“What?” Mycroft objected.

Greg raised a brow and tilted his head at the door. “You want to wander around and find another place, be my guest. I’m not going back out in that.”

“I doubt you’d have any luck besides,” the man offered. “Pretty much the whole town is booked out.”

“Hear that?” Greg turned back to the receptionist. “The room is fine.”

“Breakfast is included,” he accepted Greg’s proffered credit card, running it deftly and producing a pair of room keys. “We don’t run a full kitchen, but if you give me a few minutes, I think Natalia is still here. I could probably convince her to make some soup and sandwiches.”

“That would be fantastic.”

“I’ll drop them by in about twenty minutes.” He paused, glancing at Mycroft. “And some extra towels. You boys look like you swam here.”

“That might have been preferable,” Greg sighed.

“Right, so you’re down the end of the hall. Last door on the right. Breakfast from seven just in the conservatory over here. Call if you need anything.”

“Ta,” Greg slid the keys across the small counter. “The room is more than enough.” Mycroft was still scowling when Greg turned around. “C’mon. Nothing more we can do tonight.”

“This is absurd.”

~

“This is absurd,” Mycroft repeated.

“I heard you the first time,” Greg muttered, shedding his thoroughly soaked coat and scarf, draping them across the radiator and twisting it up to full heat. “And I told you, you can wander about in the storm if you want. But this place is warm and dry and there’s a bed and a shower.”

Mycroft scoffed.

“Oi!” Greg straightened from where he’d crouched to untie his shoes. “Do you think I’m chuffed about this? Your tit of a brother stole my car and abandoned me in the middle of nowhere. We had to walk a mile in a sodding downpour and gale force winds only to find out all the trains were done.”

“Hardly my fault,” Mycroft insisted.

“I never said it was!” Greg barked back. Then he sighed and dropped his arms in exasperation. “Look. I appreciate you trying to collect me. And it was bloody bad luck the tire blew. And… and I’m sorry…” Greg puffed a breath, blowing out his cheeks. “I’m sorry your mobile fell in that puddle.”

Mycroft winced, the sour expression on his face returning quickly. “That was unfortunate.”

It was getting hard not to laugh. “And that I left the GPS active on mine… drained the battery.”

Mycroft sighed. “Unforeseeable.”

“And I’m really, really-“ Greg choked back a chuckle. “Really sorry about that car… and the mud… when you were nearest the road.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “Unpredictable, I can only hope.”

A crack of thunder rattled the windowpane and the electricity flickered. When the lights stablised, Greg broke down in giggles. “You’re right!”

“Am I?”

“Oh God, you’re right!” He laughed hard enough that he had to sit on the edge of the bed. “This _is_ absurd!”

Mycroft stared at him, debating whether it would be more demeaning to allow the water to continue to run from the stubborn forelock of hair plastered to his forehead and collect at the tip of his nose, or to swipe at it like an unmannered chav. “You are getting water on the coverlet.”

Greg managed to rein in the worst of his mirth. “Oh god, you’re not even wearing a coat!”

“No,” Mycroft drawled. “I am not.”

“God, you must be freezing.” Greg wiped a hand across his face. “I’m freezing and I had a bloody coat and scarf.” He pushed himself up and crossed the narrow space to the bathroom. “Tell you what,” he reached into the loo and pulled out a towel and robe. “Go on and take the first shower.”

“I’m sorry?”

Greg gestured at the bathroom. “The shower. Go take one.”

Mycroft blinked in the direction gestured.

Greg huffed. “Look.” He turned on the tap to the warmest setting. “That’s warm. You’re not.”

“I know how a shower works, Detective Inspector.”

“Greg. And you’re making a good show to the contrary.” He put a hand on Mycroft’s back and nudged him toward the loo.

Mycroft planted his feet. “Why are you letting me have the shower first… Gregory? You were outside in the storm longer. You have spent more time cold. Logic dictates you should go first.”

Greg grinned and started prodding him again. “Yeah, and I had a coat. And I’m used to freezing my arse off at work. And if I take the first shower, you’ll be out here shivering when that lovely guy shows up with our food, and I’ll look unchivalrous, and we really can’t have that.”

“That’s abusurd.”

“So is this,” Greg gave him a bit of a shove. “Now take a shower.” He pulled the bathroom door shut, leaving Mycroft blinking in the steam filled room on the other side.

It was a moment or two before Greg heard Mycroft moving around, before the taps were adjusted, before the rustle of fabric. Good. That man was stiff enough without being frozen on top of it. Speaking of frozen, Greg stooped to peel off his sodden socks. With some master level tetris skills, he arranged his socks and shoes on the small radiator next to his coat and scarf. That done, his trousers, shirt, and vest found their way onto hangers. At least the robes were soft, and generous.

He’d only managed to tie the sash when there was a knock on the door. “Oh, that was quick.”

The receptionist smiled and offered a tray. “Managed to find some nips as well. Ought to warm you up proper.”

“Ta.” He took the tray. “Above and beyond.”

“Have a lovely evening.”

~

Twenty minutes later, Greg was much drier and much warmer. And if the soup was still hot, he’d be in heaven. He pushed out of the bathroom, running a towel over his hair for good measure. “I forgot to ask, Mycroft. Should you maybe call… someone? I wouldn’t want the government to shut down just because you’ve got stuck in a storm.”

“I made that call while you were in the shower.”

“Oh. Good.” Greg moved his soup and whiskey within arms reach before he settled on one side of the bed, propping himself against the headboard. “Your assistant then?”

Mycroft hummed, picking at the crust of his brown bread. “I have many assistants.”

“You know the one,” Greg continued. “With the hair and the heels and the mobile.”

Mycroft glared. “Need I warn Anthea of your interest?”

Greg laughed, well and truly laughed. Maybe it was the way Mycroft was sitting cross-legged on the bed, maybe it was the robe and the ruffled hair, maybe it was the petulant expression he received for his laugh. “No,” Greg finally managed between chuckles. “You don’t need to ‘warn’ Anthea. I doubt you’d need to warn that woman of anything, but she’s not my type.”

“No?”

“God, no. Besides,” he picked up his whiskey and took a sip. “She could probably kill me with one hand tied behind her back.”

The flicker of a smirk played across Mycroft’s face.

“I knew it!” Greg laughed again. “Knew there was a reason you kept all those women around you at work.”

“All those women,” Mycroft mused. “You’d be surprised how dismissive people can be around an attractive woman.”

Greg sat forward. “I’d been wondering. Does she actually have to do your filing as well? You know, to keep up appearances?”

Mycroft frowned. “She has an excellent knowledge of my preferred administrative organization. That being said, anyone can be taught to file. Though your office may be testament to the contrary.”

“Oi!” Greg poked his thigh. “The piles work just fine for me. And it keeps your brother on his toes.”

“One day, you may find yourself crushed beneath a stack of unfiled cases. Then where will you be?”

“At work, where I always am,” Greg answered wryly. “Eat your soup and stop picking at your bread. No wonder you were shivering, you’re all skin and bones.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Yeah, yeah. Eat your soup before it gets cold.”

Mycroft grumbled, but picked up his spoon and started in on the soup. “It may have escaped your notice, but this one room has only one bed.”

Greg paused with a spoonful of soup halfway to his mouth. “Is that a fact?” He finished his soup quickly. “This bed is big enough for five people, and none of them would touch. I’m pretty sure this will be fine.”

“As long as you are aware.”

Greg huffed. “I’m not that thick. Stop listening to your brother. And finish your food.”

~

Greg made a circuit of the room, flicking off the lights as he went and drawing the curtains against the steady patter of rain and occasional flash of lightning. “Should I bother to set an alarm?”

The small lamp on the nightstand flickered again, and Mycroft frowned. “In the likelihood of power failure, it will only confuse the issue. I wake unfailingly at five.”

Greg huffed. “Of course you do.” He flicked back the duvet and climbed into the monstrosity of a bed. “As long as you don’t hog the blankets.”

“The blankets on this bed are quite expansive. I doubt one could adequately hog them.”

He stretched to turn off the last light and punched his pillow into an amenable shape. “You don’t snore, do you?”

Mycroft scoffed.

“I’m only asking,” Greg murmured. “Been a while since I’ve shared a bed with anyone. Just trying to remember the rules.”

“There are rules?”

“I don’t know, maybe?” Greg squished the pillow between his cheek and his arm, catching a brief glimpse of Mycroft in a muted glare of lightning. “If there are any, I’m probably not the person to ask.”

“Why’s that?”

“Apparently, I’m rubbish at it.”

Mycroft snorted. “I doubt that.”

“Just don’t go asking for referrals. I’m not sure you’d find a favorable one.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Find a favorable one?” Greg stifled a yawn.

“No. Why would I ask for referrals?”

“Dunno. People do that.”

“People are idiots. However, I shall keep that in mind for the next time I find myself stranded without transportation and adequate means of communication.”

“Happens often, does it?” Greg chuckled.

“Repeatedly,” Mycroft deadpanned.

Greg burst out laughing. “I thought you said you called Anthea.”

“I did.”

“And she didn’t find some way to collect you?”

“No,” Mycroft said regretfully. “She suggested I ‘take a night off.’”

Greg laughed harder. “She could have sent a car.”

“Her exact words were, ‘Until we manage to return the previously loaned property, the RAF is no longer in the vehicular provision industry.’”

Whatever he’d wanted to say was lost in another fit of giggles. “You’re the Department of Transport!”

“It’s absurd.”

Greg was laughing so hard he was crying. “Oh god. Stop!”

“It _IS_ absurd!”

Greg kept laughing. “She grounded you!”

“Gregory, please.”

“She grounded the British Government!”

Mycroft sighed and shook his head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“So are you!” Greg howled. “You wandered around in a storm without a coat and in a three-piece suit!”

“Not intentionally.”

“The puddle. My God, Mycroft! You fell in a puddle!”

“I will thank you never to mention that fact again.”

“Oh God, you’re right. It is absurd. It’s just…” He sighed. “It’s funny. This whole thing is hilarious.”

Mycroft sniffed.

“I’m not making fun of you. It’s just the whole situation. It’s… It’s just…”

“Absurd?” Mycroft offered

“Yes. And I can see you grinning from here.”

“No you can’t.”

Greg managed to get his laughter under control again. “Can so. God. Sorry. I don’t think I’ve laughed like that in ages.”

“It suits you.”

“What does? Laughing?” He was glad the darkness hid the flush he felt climbing the back of his neck.

“Mmn.”

“Yeah. Well. A bit of rumpling every now and then suits you.”

The silence between them stretched out in the darkness. Finally, Mycroft yawned.

“Are you warm enough?”

“Quite… The shower and the soup were adequate.”

“Yeah.”

“Mmn.”

“Whiskey was good too.”

“Yes.”

He yawned. “Oi, keep your freezing toes over on your side of the bed.”

Mycroft chuckled.

“Berk.”

“Charlatan.”

“Posh twat.”

“Hooligan.”

“What have I told you about listening to your brother?”

“Now he… He is a brat.”

“You can do better.”

Mycroft’s words were softened in his pillow. “It hardly bears mentioning.”

“Yeah, well… I’d rather be stuck here with you than him.”

“Hmm.”

“Mycroft?”

“Hmm?”

“Never mind… Get some sleep.”

“Goodnight, Gregory.”

“Night, Mycroft.”

The rain had become a soothing rhythm as the storm had nearly run its course. Without the punctuation of thunder or intrusive drone of cars and city ruckus, Greg was quickly lulled to sleep.

“Gregory?”

…

“I’m glad it was you as well.”

~

Greg woke feeling warm and relaxed. In fact, he was way too relaxed to be waking up at five in the morning. It was also far too bright for five in the morning. In fact, the slash of light that managed to find itself tracking directly across his eyes was too warm and too bright to be five in the morning. He contemplated stretching and maybe moving his face out of the pesky light, but there was a significant weight draped across his torso and his left arm and his hips and his right leg. Thankfully, his right hand was weight free, and he managed to rub the sleep out of his eyes… and shield them from the rude sunbeam.

Even that slight movement was enough to disturb the weight into snuffling against him. Greg blinked down the length of his chest to find a ruddy head of hair planted on his sternum. That was a surprise. Accompanying the snuffle was a pleasant tightening of the limbs that had wrapped around his waist and legs. The urge to laugh again was nearly overwhelming. Nearly. Something told him it wouldn’t be a welcome way to be woken. Then again, something told him that whatever way Mycroft Holmes woke, finding himself plastered to someone’s chest wasn’t going to be welcome either.

Not that Greg found it all that unwelcome. It actually felt… nice. Weird, seeing as they were both in just pants and large terrycloth robes. And not how he’d ever imagined it happening… But… Nice. Good even. Right. So. How did one go about waking up Mycroft Holmes? There was a phrase niggling at the back of his mind about sleeping dogs, but it was daylight. No way but forward and all that. Greg sighed and settled his hand gently on the back of Mycroft’s head. “Mycroft,” he murmured. “Mycroft?”

“Hmm?”

“Myc,” he ran his fingers through what was already rumpled hair. “You should probably wake up.”

“Mmn, no.”

Greg did chuckle. “You’re going to wake up and you’ll be angry with me and you’ll be angry with yourself and you’re going to get all shirty about it. So you should probably wake up now.”

Mycroft caught Greg’s wrist in the circle of his fingers and planted it firmly against the sheets. “Why?” He dragged his cheek along the edge of the robe, his breath puffing against bare chest as he went, only to bury his face in the side of Greg’s neck. “This is much nicer than being angry.”

“Oh,” Greg swallowed. “Yeah. I’m with you. But…”

“Shh.”

“Right. Ok.” He tried to relax. Mycroft was a surprisingly slight weight for such a tall bloke. He was also a warm weight. And the slow puffs of breath fogging the space beneath his chin were both familiar and alien and God did it feel nice. It had been a very long time…

“Hmm, you’re warm.”

Greg huffed, “And you’re still not awake.” He wiggled his arm free from under Mycroft’s torso and flexed his fingers a few times before settling his palm between Mycroft’s shoulder blades.

“Why should I be awake?”

Greg shrugged; he couldn’t help it. If anyone needed a lie-in, it was Mycroft Holmes. “It’s well after five?”

“What?!”

Greg started as Mycroft nearly levitated from the bed, landing with his hands planted against Greg’s shoulders, knees bracketing his hips. “Whoa, hey.” And Greg held his hands up in a placating manner.

It was astounding to watch the sleepy haze disappear into a sharp crystalline grey, the penetrating, shrewd intelligence returning full force. “What are you doing?” What would normally be startling scrutiny was dampened by the fact that Mycroft Holmes had a ridiculous case of bedhead.

Greg furrowed his brow. “Uh…” He was desperately torn between the humor of the situation and the fact that he was well aware he was witness to a Mycroft Holmes that few people would ever be privy to. And as amusing as it was, Mycroft Holmes was not a man to be laughed at. “What… What do you mean?”

Mycroft frowned, one brow arching sharply. “I thought the question was very clear. What exactly are you doing?”

Greg couldn’t help the smile to quirked the corner of his mouth. “What am I doing?” Greg waved one of his hands as far as Mycroft’s restricting grip would allow. “I uh… I’m just sort of… Laying here.”

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed. “Are you now?”

Greg huffed. “You’re the one on my side of the bed.”

“Your side?”

“And,” Greg’s smirk broke into a full-blown smile. “Somewhat… on… me?”

The realization dawning in Mycroft’s eyes was accompanied by a slow and rosy flush creeping across his cheeks and fanning out to his ears. “I… My apologies.”

“Not at all,” Greg said with a grin. “I’m… at your leisure here, I guess.”

Mycroft’s blush deepened. “I’ll… I should…” He shifted his weight backwards, releasing one of Greg’s shoulders.

“It’s fine,” Greg said quickly, catching Mycroft’s hip with a tighter grip than absolutely necessary, attempting to keep him from settling back too far. “I… I wasn’t complaining.”

Mycroft gave him a skeptical look. “You’re… Not.”

It was Greg’s turn to pinken. “No. I just… Didn’t want you to… Not really awake… And…” It was a fine line between curiosity and scrutiny. And as much Greg though he might know Mycroft well enough, he wasn’t terribly sure which expression it was as Mycroft studied his face. “I wasn’t making fun either.” The statement was as true as it was unplanned, and Greg felt his face burn with the admission.

Mycroft could have been cut from stone for all his mien shifted as his attention moved from Greg’s face to his neck, his shoulders – the left still held resolutely to the bed by one of Mycroft’s hands – and his arms, his hand on Mycroft’s hip, their state of dress or undress as it may be, Greg’s state of interest. Mycroft’s brow rose as he tracked the skin exposed by the gaping robe, meeting Greg’s gaze resolutely. “No. You weren’t, were you.”

“I…” Greg huffed out a nervous laugh. It wasn’t a question. “I wouldn’t…” Both of Mycroft’s hands returned to Greg’s shoulders as he eased forward, transferring the bulk of his weight onto his hands and pressing Greg firmly back into the mattress. His mouth went dry. “Wh-what are you doing?”

“You let me sleep.”

Greg nodded slowly.

“You didn’t mind I was on your side of the bed.”

“N-no,” Greg shook his head.

“You didn’t mind that I was… smothering you.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, “You don’t weigh enough to smother me.”

Mycroft tilted his head fractionally. “You didn’t mind.”

“No…” Greg murmured.

“You… enjoyed it.” It was far closer to a hushed question than any of the previous statements.

Greg gave a single, small nod.

“You…”

Greg wet his lips, not missing the way Mycroft’s eyes tracked the movement, focus latching onto the narrow void left as his tongue retreated. Whatever momentum Mycroft had built seemed to stall as the space between them shrank in an achingly torpid manner. “I…?”

“Want?”

Oh. If he hadn’t been watching the word escape, he could have convinced himself he didn’t hear it. Want? Want. Want warmed his limbs. Want heated the air between them. Want flooded his cheeks with color and sped his breath and twisted in his chest. “Yeah,” he breathed. “You.”

“Me?”

“Yeah. For a long time.”

“Oh…”

“Yeah…”

Consternation flicked across Mycroft’s face. “So…”

“Can I?”

Mycroft watched as Greg’s fingertips reached forward, skimming first his cheek then his jaw, sliding back into his hair. “Gregory…”

“Can I?”

Mycroft’s eyes flickered shut with a sigh.

“Please, can I?”

Mycroft’s ‘yes’ was a low breath against Greg’s lips as the last fragment of space between them disappeared. It was just a brush of lips. A huff of breath. Noses bumping.

“Yeah?” Greg tipped his head, tilting his chin up.

Mycroft hummed and his nod stopped short as their lips met again, this time with purpose, in a smooth caress. Greg’s fingers slid farther back, feathering through the hair at the nape of his neck, brushing the short strands against the grain. Mycroft’s hum turned into a purr as his weight sank down onto the warm body beneath him. Greg groaned his approval, lips moving gently against the ones above him. It was still tentative, lazy, cautious and slow with an edge, a hint of something more just lingering at the corners. And when he eased back, Greg took the opportunity to scrape his teeth over Mycroft’s lower lip. “Oh…”

“Mmn,” Greg grinned. “Good morning.”

“Good… morning?”

“It certainly is.” Greg kept his hand wrapped around the back of Mycroft’s neck, pulling him down to rest their foreheads together. “Again?” Mycroft rolled his eyes and dove in for another kiss.

The knocking was completely unexpected. Unexpected and wholly unwanted. Greg groaned in frustration. Fucking hell, “WHAT?!” he bellowed at the closed door. Mycroft flushed and ducked his face against Greg’s chest.

“Sorry to wake you, Mr. Lestrade. There’s a driver in reception waiting for yourself and your colleague.”

“Of course there is,” Greg muttered, pressing his eyes shut. “We’re up! We’re up. Tell them we’ll be down in ten minutes.”

“Very good!”

Greg scrubbed a hand over his face. “Good morning then.” The huffing sound coming from somewhere around his sternum was a surprise. So was the increasing volume as Greg realized that Mycroft Holmes was chuckling. He only held out for a moment before joining in. “Find this funny, do you?”

“It’s absurd!” Mycroft burst out laughing, keeping his face buried in Greg’s robe.

~

It was an uneventful drive back to London proper, and Greg found himself dropped out front of the Yard as Mycroft had to return to his office, most likely to organize the return of that Range Rover, and Greg had to see a man about his car. But after the fifth conversation with three different impound lots, Greg was no closer to having the vehicle back in his possession and his blood pressure was surely ten points higher.

“Lestrade!”

“Jesus Christ on a cracker,” Greg started, turning towards his door. “Fucking hell, Sherlock.”

“Greg, sorry!” John called, pushing in behind him. “Literally got away from me for a second.”

“Yes, yes. I need a case, Lestrade.”

“You need to get the hell out, is what you need,” Greg muttered, replacing the phone in its cradle.

“Case.”

“Sherlock, manners!” John hissed.

“Case, please?”

“Where’s my car, Sherlock?” Greg asked, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair.

Sherlock waved him off as though the question was a minor irritation. “Caught you a car thief. Case?”

“Catch me my car back out of impound and we’ll talk.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “If I retrieve your car, you’ll give me a case?”

Greg frowned at him, “You get me my car back, legally, and we’ll talk.”

“Legally,” Sherlock huffed. “Dull.”

“Sherlock, please,” John muttered.

“He’s being unreasonable, John!”

“No, you’re being a bloody twat,” Greg interjected. “Car first, then case.”

“But your car will be held as evidence for two weeks,” Sherlock whined.

“Then no case for two weeks,” Greg responded flatly.

“This is ridiculous!” Sherlock snarled, spinning sharply and stalking out of his office.

“You’re ridiculous!” Greg hollered at his back.

John sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sorry. He said he was going to apologize.”

“Probably thinks he did.”

John huffed. “God, I’m sorry. Did you end up… Did Mycroft sort something?”

“Something…” Greg said vaguely.

“Right. Look. Pints soon?”

Greg gave him a genuine grin. “I know you’ll need them; two week ban and all.”

John groaned. “I’d demand you buy the first round, but I’m sure I still owe you for yesterday.”

“You definitely do.”

~

“What do mean I shouldn’t bother?” Lestrade snapped. “Sherlock!” He glared at the door that swung shut in Sherlock’s wake. He clenched his jaw and counted slowly to ten. “Sod it all!” He ran a hand across his face with a sigh. It had been a long and busy two-weeks. The bad kind of busy. And if he’d let Sherlock back by day ten, it was only because his car had reappeared at the Yard and his keys had been on his desk. And maybe because John was at a conference for a few days. It wasn’t because he needed Sherlock on this. Not that he was being any help whatsoever. Five days of long hours and late nights and now this. A messy body dump. More lashing rain. Being soaked to the bone. God he was probably dripping on the floor. And Sherlock just walking out.

He pushed out the door of the morgue and found an empty corridor to just… something. He leaned back against the wall and tipped his head back against the tiles, closing his eyes. He counted to ten again, pressed the heels of his hands against his face and groaned. Maybe he was getting too old for this shit. Someone cleared their throat politely and Greg snapped himself upright.

“Detective Inspector.”

Greg blinked and then blushed. They hadn’t spoken since he was deposited, rather unceremoniously on his work doorstep, and it wasn’t that it hadn’t crossed his mind. But how exactly does one ring up the Government and tell them that the cuddling was nice? “Mycroft,” he gave a nod, looking more comfortable than he felt as Mycroft approached.

Mycroft stopped a respectable distance away. “I apologise for the intrusion.” He paused, a brief assessment before he continued. “I’m afraid this is a business related convention.”

“Oh.” Greg nodded. Business. Right. He could do business…. Oh. “Ooooh,” he sighed and shook his head. “That one?” he jerked his thumb in the direction of the morgue.

“I am afraid so.”

“Right. Ok.” Greg puffed out his cheeks. “Is it ‘turn over the files’ or ‘this never happened and we’ll never speak of it again on pain of death’?”

The flicker of a smile pulled at the corner of Mycroft’s mouth. “Turn over the files, please.”

“Ah, yes. Please. Of course.”

“We are nothing if not achingly polite.”

“Yes, the first thing anyone thinks about when it comes to the Department of Transport.”

“My apologies.”

“No, no.” He sighed and slumped against the wall again. “It’s… It’s fine. That’s the reason why your brother was being a prick.”

“I’ve never known him to need a reason.”

Greg huffed out a laugh and rubbed his forehead. “No. I’m up to my eyeballs anyway.”

Mycroft cleared his throat again, and Greg glanced up to find him a half step closer, studiously examining the tip of his umbrella where it rested near their shoes. “I was… out of the country on business for the past week. I had otherwise intended…”

“Are you saying you were too busy to call?”

“You have been out in the rain again, Detective Inspector.”

Greg snorted.

“You will find yourself in poor health if you continue.”

“Maybe I need to find myself a good umbrella.” He grinned, tilting his chin up to share the amusement.

Mycroft hummed. “If you could, perhaps, find yourself less damp, I might be amenable to dinner.”

“Yeah?” Greg shifted his shoulders against the wall, inching upwards. “I could do that.”

“Would seven suit you?”

He glanced at his watch and nodded. “I keep a change in my office. I could… Yeah.”

Mycroft stepped closer, crowding Greg against the wall without touching him. He dipped his head, breath curling across Greg’s cheek as he dropped his voice low. “I look forward to it, Gregory.” He punctuated the statement with a tempting brush of lips. Not even a kiss. A barely there caress.

Greg let out an embarrassing sound.

Mycroft straightened, gave a crisp nod and a wicked smile. “Good afternoon, Detective Inspector.”

Greg swallowed and nodded dumbly, feeling the heat burn across his face. “Yeah. Right. Afternoon.” Dinner… He watched Mycroft retreat down the corridor, swinging his umbrella. Dinner was good.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Thanksgiving! Also, if anyone is keeping count, I've started a Mystrade series. Now you can find all of my Mystrade drabbles and fics in one place.


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